


dies Veneris, XIII

by dksfwm



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 03:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13650657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dksfwm/pseuds/dksfwm
Summary: The nine times Mulder’s birthday has landed on a Friday.





	dies Veneris, XIII

**Author's Note:**

> "dies Veneris" translates to day of Venus, which was equivalent to Friday in Ancient Rome.  
> XIII is the Roman numeral for 13.  
> It's not grammatically correct, but I don't care lol.

_1961_  
Superstitions surrounding Friday the 13th never bothered her, until she went into labor in the early hours that fateful Friday in October.

Historians claimed it was the day Eve bit the apple from the Tree of Knowledge; the number 12 was considered to be the number of completeness, while 13 was notoriously seen as an outlier. People born on Friday the 13th were said to be unlucky for life, she remembers someone telling her once. Knowing how her son came to be, she fears he may already be ill-fated, regardless of his birthday.

He almost misses the cut, his first breath recorded at 11:57pm. For as painful as the 20-hour labor was, she privately hoped he would hold out for a few more minutes, the avoidance of any additional burdens heavy on her mind. She names him Fox, which, unbeknownst to her, is entirely fitting for his nocturnal habits. She hopes that his name will become him, that he’ll have an agile mind with keen intelligence, be driven by passion, and possess an inconspicuous personality, conceivably to spare him from the pain she’s sure she’ll cause him; ultimately, like the fox, she anticipates that he’s going to have to protect himself.

She kisses his tiny cheek, relishing in the soft, baby-fine peach fuzz that tickles her nose, and whispers the first of, she believes, many apologies to him.  
  


_1967  
_ He’s six years old and he’s just been gifted his first baseball glove. He inhales the scent of the fresh, unused leather, savors the way his hand slides into the fingers for the first time, breaking the seal, adjusting the strap over the back of his hand to find the perfect fit, punching his fist into his gloved-palm a few times, creating it’s first cracks. He can’t wait to get it dirty, to put it to use.

His baby sister, who is looking less and less like a baby each day, lays her curious green eyes on his gift, fascinated by its shape. She reaches out to touch it, a soft caress, intent on memorizing its three-dimensional form and how soft it is against her palm. She’s like him that way, inquisitive, but quiet, soaking up every element in the discovery of their world.

Everyone is smiling and laughing, sated by mashed potatoes and steak and ice cream. He has his glove on his lap, his sister tucked into his side as he reads to her from one of his new books. Newly six, but he likes it so far.

His mother, however, stands in the corner of the room, arms crossed, leaning against the door jamb. He wonders why she looks like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

 _1972  
_ Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Find a penny, pick it up. All day long you’ll have good luck. Friday the 13th is the most unlucky day of the year, because 13 is an unlucky number. Jesus died on a Friday.

He’s memorized all the phobias: Acrophobia, fear of heights. Xenophobia, fear of the unknown. Nyctophobia, fear of darkness.

Paraskevidekatriaphobia. Friggatriskaidekaphobia. Fear of Friday the 13th.

He spends the day cowering in distress, fully coming to terms with the implications, the superstitions behind Friday the 13th. He’s noticed how many apartments and hotels omit the 13th floor, that the few plane rides he’s taken have had a lack of a numbered 13 row. He’s extra cautious of most of the other common superstitions, today of all days: Closing his eyes on the ride both to and from school to avoid seeing any black cats, foregoing an umbrella entirely, despite the constant drizzle, to take away the potential of opening it inside.

It’s the first year that he actually hates his birthday.

_1978  
_ He never had a bar mitzvah, so he didn’t become a man at 13; he certainly didn’t feel like one at the time, either, with his sister missing for almost a year. At 18, you’re an adult; you can legally smoke cigarettes, purchase alcohol, at least in Massachusetts. But at 17, he feels like he’s in limbo, not yet a man, but forced to be one.

The Yankees are in the World Series this year, a small opportunity for an interlude on what has slowly become his least favorite day of the year. But with his luck, he fears that he’s fated a Yankee loss tonight. The fact that the Dodgers have won the first two games of the series doesn’t help, either.

His parents fought at dinner, which was a marvel in and of itself that they both managed to come together that evening at all. He sits on the couch with his father, who has never liked baseball, and watches the game, poised to ignore his father. It’s then that his father tells him that he and his mother are separating; his father doesn’t follow up with any additional information, leaves him to watch the remainder of the game in silence.

The Yankees win and he finally remembers to breathe. He suddenly feels as if a weight has been removed from his shoulders, no longer feeling guilty for wanting to get as far away as he can next fall when he goes off to college. Oxford has never sounded more appealing. Maybe he has become a man, after all.

 

 _1989_  
He hasn’t had his birthday on a Friday in years, a small respite for the unfortunate circumstances that have plagued his life. No longer a brother, no longer really a son, either, considering he can’t remember the last time he spoke to either of his parents. Choosing, instead, to delve into the minds of psychopaths and killers; it’s not the type of life kids dream of, but it has become his reality.

He spends the evening at a bar getting near black-out drunk, reminiscing his last good birthday, six weeks before Samantha was taken. He considers going home with the woman two seats over from him, forgetting entirely about Diana.

The disappearance of his sister, analyzing motives of criminals to the point of almost becoming them, his discovery of the X-files, these aren’t the incidents that makes him spooky, he’s realized; he’s been that way since birth. To have an October birthday already ups the spook-ante, obviously, but to be born on Friday the 13th sets him over the line. It’s his destiny, this unfortunate life he leads. He came into this world equipped for burden, it’s the only life he’s ever known.

He throws back another shot of tequila and vows, in his morose yet bacchanalian state, to remain detached and indifferent on every October 13th, Friday or not, from this point forward. Maybe it’s the only way to control his demons.

_1995  
_ She shows up at his apartment just after 7:00, in jeans and cream sweater that brings out the cerulean of her eyes, momentarily taking his breath away. He’s not entirely used to seeing her in casual attire, thrown-off as to why she’s even there in the first place. But she smiles and his uncertainty dissipates.

“Can I take you to dinner, birthday boy?”

They end up ordering Thai take-out, sipping old but perfectly drinkable beers on his couch, the volume turned low on the Braves-Reds league championship playoff game. There’s little conversation, but it’s comfortable; she asks questions about the game and his affinity for the sport until she nods off against his shoulder somewhere around the bottom of the fourth inning. He places a blanket over her, careful not to wake her with his movements. He has no real attachment to either team playing in the series, but the night’s events have made it the best damn baseball game he’s ever watched in his life.

As far as Friday birthdays go, this one is his favorite. He almost forgets that he’s supposed to be cursed.

 

 _2000  
_ She pinches the sonogram between her fingers, the oil from the skin of her thumb leaving her prints behind. Evidence, tangible, as if her name in the top left corner wasn’t proof enough. Her arm is outstretched as far as possible and she squints at the black of her uterus, the tiny grey blob forming in the once-empty space, wavy white lines detectable only in the image, but seem to form a barrier between the baby and the rest of her body. If she squints harder, maybe it will seem real.

She tapes it to the mirror over her vanity, forcing herself to look at it every time she looks at herself. They are one, now, for the next thirty-one weeks. She finds it ironic that this child will be in her womb, so inwardly connected, for longer than she and its father were ever intimately together.

The date in the top right corner of the image stops her in her tracks, knocks all the air from her lungs, compels her to pressure the back of her hand against her mouth, against the fresh wave of threatening nausea. Everything about this is unfair.

She calls in sick and spends his birthday sobbing on her kitchen floor, tears falling for the child he will never meet, his Knicks shirt clutched to her chest. He spends it on a craft, unconscious, somewhere over the Midwest.

 

 _2006  
_ The day’s rising sun brings a sky that artists could only dream of: Pinks, oranges, yellows, and blues, colors of various shades, hues. It’s one of those sunrises where a picture wouldn’t have been able to capture the beauty in its entirety, where a painter would not have been able to replicate it to perfection and, therefore, defeats its purpose.

He sways quietly on the porch swing in flannel and sweatpants. There’s a brisk chill, a quiet breeze, full immersion of fall underway. He’s taken by the changing of the leaves, surrounded by more colors than he could possibly name. It’s like a breath of fresh air, the colors, after spending so much time in the dark.

The sounds of her in the kitchen, preparing her lunch and cleaning up after her breakfast, settle him. They can do this now, domesticity; a home to call their own, despite it only being in her name. He’ll miss her while she’s away at work, saving lives like she was meant to, but holds strong the promise of her return at the end of the day. She saves his life, in more ways than he can fathom, too.

He kisses her before she leaves, before she whispers “happy birthday,” before he almost selfishly pulls her into his lap, wanting to ask her to waste the day away with him. He watches as she backs out of their long, gravel driveway, opens and closes the gate, and steers herself onto the road. The air warms as the sun climbs higher. He scratches the scruff at his jaw, not quite a beard, but close.

This year, Friday comes and goes in peace, uneventfully. She is there with him to watch the sun set. He is profusely grateful.

  
_2017  
_ He had read an article in National Geographic a few days ago that claimed once superstitions are in a particular culture, people tend to honor them; to ignore them is to tempt fate, some believed. He had believed in all of them, and he still found himself one of the most unfortunate people on the planet.

He was intent on taking this day back. Friday the 13th in general.  His birthday, superstitions be damned.

The day passes as any other, the two of them holed up in the basement filling out paperwork. He takes Twitter breaks and texts her the links of articles she would enjoy, of memes that earn a smirk from him. She sits across from him at the desk and huffs in annoyance whenever her phone buzzes, as if his messages are obnoxious, which, to her credit, they are. But he is exhilarated when she opens the messages, her eyes closing in contentment when she smiles.

She’s packed up at 4:00 and pulling her coat on at 4:15. He teases her, calls her “Agent Scully,” reprimands her for cutting out early on a Friday, how unlike her it is. She tells him she has plans, to have a good weekend, that she’ll see him on Monday. He doesn’t try to hide his disappointment as she walks out of the office.

He sulks the entire drive home until he pulls up to the gate of the property and sees her car at the edge of the house. He takes his time coming up the driveway, savoring her smile as she waits for him, glass of wine in hand, at the top of the porch steps.

He meets her on the steps, taking the wine in one hand and one of hers in the other. As long as she’s around to celebrate with him, his ill-fated Friday birthdays are a thing of the past.


End file.
